


and pretend 'til the morning light

by plinys



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Amnesia, Canon Compliant, Getting Back Together, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: “Richie,” he’ll say, with a sinful wink. “But you can call me Trashmouth. And don’t worry ladies and gentlemen if you wait until after the show I’ll be sure to show you just what this 'trashmouth' can do.”Eddie doesn’t know why he hadn’t been able to get this man out of his mind.[Or: Eddie meets Richie at a comedy club in 1999 and thinks that it is for the very first time.]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 73
Kudos: 616





	and pretend 'til the morning light

**Author's Note:**

> everyone and their mom has written a richie and eddie meet during the 27 years between ch 1 and ch 2 fic, but i had to do my own version because i am That Extra

It’s cold.

And he doesn’t want to fucking be here. 

Something that Eddie has already said multiple times at this point. Not that his coworkers are really listening. 

He should have just said ‘no’, made some excuse said that he was too busy to go out tonight, but he hadn’t been able to think of an alternate plan quick enough and they had already known that Eddie wasn’t the social type. He didn’t have many work friends, didn’t have friends outside of work really. Had long since convinced himself that he just wasn’t the type of person meant to have friends, that maybe he might have been once as a kid or some shit, but Eddie’s childhood memories are few and far between, his vague acquaintances and study partners from college long forgotten to the passage of time, and he had always successfully turned down any attempts at friendship from his coworkers.

Until now. 

It had been a desperate attempt to drag Eddie out of the office, to stop him from being such a workaholic. Things had gotten bad, to the point where his boss mentioned that there was such a thing as  _ too much  _ overtime. That the numbers would still be there in the morning, even if Eddie’s anxiety wouldn’t let him believe it.

So he had gone out.

Maybe it has something to do with the end of the century coming soon.

His therapist had insisted before that many people act impulsively, unsure whether the turn into  _ 2000  _ will mean the end of the world or not. Eddie’s read articles about it. Felt that panic that one can never be too sure of just there underneath his skin. 

“I’m fucking cold,” Eddie says again.

Just because he can.

Because his pea coat, hiding and protecting his one expensive and properly fitting suit, is just a little bit too thin for the New York City winters. Not that Eddie usually spends much time outdoors. Usually it was just running from his office to the subway entrance. Not standing outside some club for an open mic night. 

“I don’t want to be here, and I’m fucking cold,” Eddie repeats. 

His coworkers all ignore him at this point. 

They probably won’t invite him back out after this.

Which Eddie silently counts as a win.

Because he doesn’t want to fucking be here, he just - 

“It’s New York,” a man behind him says, a  _ stranger _ , “Of course, it’s fucking cold.” 

Eddie turns around before he can think better of it. 

There’s a group of guys in thinner coats than his own behind him, clearly the type of people that work in a less affluent part of the city. They’ve clearly all been drinking. One a little more unsteady than the rest. Drank enough not to feel the cold or some shit. 

Eddie doesn’t know.

Doesn’t care. 

He shouldn’t bother, they’re all standing in this line together, all waiting for the same thing to happen and he doesn’t even fucking know them. But Eddie’s always had his fight or flight response turned to  _ fight _ . And so he singles in on the man in the center, in a stupid red flannel, with a cigarette between his fingers, and eyes that watch Eddie too closely behind crooked glasses frames. 

“One of my rights as a New Yorker is complaining about the weather,” Eddie says. “So fuck off.” 

The man, this  _ stranger,  _ laughs at that. No offense taken, a dumb grin flitting across his features. He’s got a punchable face Eddie notes with mild interest. And then, for some dumb fucking reason, decides to start conversation with him - “Born and raised?” 

“Well, not exactly,” Eddie hesitates. 

Another laugh. “Let me guess? South Carolina? Georgia? Somewhere peachy and warm where the winter is a light jacket at best.” 

Eddie can’t help but take offense at the suggestion. 

“I’m from fucking Maine, asshole. I know plenty about cold.” 

The stranger seems to consider this for a moment. 

Taking a long drag on his cigarette but giving no reply. 

For some reason that makes Eddie hate him just a little bit more. 

“You know those things are going to kill you right,” Eddie says. 

Because his brain is screaming  _ fight, fight, fight  _ or just do anything to keep this stranger’s focus on him. Just for a few minutes longer. A distraction. Maybe something more. 

Another drag.

A pause for dramatic effect and - “But you know what won’t?”

Against his better judgement Eddie replies, “What?”

“The fucking cold.” 

The stranger’s friends all laugh at the joke, Eddie can even hear the distant huffs of laughter from his coworkers. And all Eddie can think about is how much he doesn’t want to fucking be here. 

The line moves suddenly.

A distraction.

And soon enough Eddie is out of the cold and without anything to complain about any longer. Pushed into a booth with his coworkers, his coat folded up neatly in his lap so that he doesn’t lose it. A round of beers purchased by someone that makes just a little bit more than him. His eyes up on the makeshift stage in the middle of the bar.

There’s a sign up sheet passed around, one of his coworkers ready to attempt to humor an entire crowd for the promise of a fifty dollar bar gift card to the best act. 

But all of that seems irrelevant the moment the show begins, and their host for the evening of terrible comedy acts steps onto the stage. 

He’s ditched the cigarette and flannel, but his eyes seem to shine even more behind those crooked frames, and he starts the night by saying - “Thanks everyone for coming out tonight, I hear it’s _fucking cold_ out there, but maybe that’s just because the asshole standing in front of me in line felt the need to repeat it every ten seconds.” 

And when he looks out to an audience and somehow manages to find Eddie among the crowd, suddenly Eddie feels like the only person in the fucking room. 

*

He waits until the next time his coworkers mention going. Nobody has invited him really. They gave up after that first time, but Eddie asks if he could come, says that he needs a break, and they let him come without any protest.

He’s a little better this time.

Doesn’t complain about the cold. 

Even though it’s still fucking cold because it’s November in New York City. 

He doesn’t complain about the beer, or the cramped booth, or terrible act that his coworker puts on desperate to convince an audience that the life of an insurance claim manager could be entertaining. 

It’s not.

None of it is.

But  _ he  _ is. 

His name is Richie. 

Eddie knows this because he starts the night by introducing himself.

“Richie,” he’ll say, with a sinful wink. “But you can call me  _ Trashmouth _ . And don’t worry ladies and gentlemen if you wait until after the show I’ll be sure to show you just what this trashmouth can do.” 

Eddie doesn’t know why he hadn’t been able to get this man out of his mind. He had written it down to annoyance, and his fucking anxiety disorder, making his  _ argument  _ with this relative stranger one that Eddie could not forget about. 

But if Eddie were to be honest with himself, he knows it’s more than that. 

The way he can’t seem to bring himself to look away from Richie the entire night.

Eddie’s not dumb. He knows what this means.

But he’s been doing his best to repress this shit since he was a preteen in a small town in Maine, and despite the way his gaze can’t help but linger. Despite the fact that it is  _ 1999  _ and he knows that being… This way… Isn’t the worst thing ever the doubt still creeps in. 

The fear that has been there since he was a boy. 

That might never go away. 

He knows he should ignore it.

Forget about all of it. 

But he can’t.

So his gaze lingers on a relative stranger all night long.

And that night in the shower, when he takes himself in hand, and imagines that there is another body pressed up against his own in the shower - the body of another  _ man  _ \- he tries to tell himself that this isn’t the worst thing ever. 

He comes with a choked off name, “ _ Richie _ ” on his lips and tries to figure out why it’s so easy, familiar almost to come undone to that name. 

*

The next week he goes back he’s on his own, unwilling to drag his coworkers back into this dirty little secret of his. But it’s awkward being on his own, no excuse to take up a booth, forced instead to watch the show from the bar, a beer growing warm in his hands as he waits and watches act after act, only really paying attention that comes on between each one of them. 

He plans to leave before the end of the show.

Already feeling awkward and  _ dirty  _ just from the thoughts that brought him there, but just as he is closing up his tab and voice stops him, a voice that Eddie has heard in all of his fantasies over the last week - “His drink’s on me.” 

Eddie turns over his shoulder.

Richie in the flesh is not dissimilar to his fantasies. Except this time he’s grinning at Eddie and a little drunk, and  _ fuck  _ Eddie’s going to hate himself a little for rubbing one out later to the image of this. 

He should say  _ thank you  _ or something, but instead all Eddie manages is, “You sure about that? Pretty sure I make more than you.” 

Richie’s grin does not falter. “Consider it a gift, from one Maineiac to another.” 

“Last I checked the official term was Mainer.”

“Well, that’s fucking dumb,” Richie replies.

Eddie can’t help but agree, he nods a little in reply.

It’s awkward.

This whole thing is fucking awkward and god this is exactly why Eddie doesn’t do this. Why he goes to work and then goes home and doesn’t socialize, let alone try and  _ flirt  _ with strangers that may or may not even be gay. 

Thankfully Richie is more bold. “You should put your name down on the list. It’s not that fucking scary I promise.” 

“What?”

“You wanna do stand up, right? I mean, I’ve noticed you coming to the shows, but you’re not here with anyone this time so I figured-”

“I don’t want to be a comedian,” Eddie says quickly. “I actually like having a job that pays the bills.” 

Richie laughs at him. 

Not in a mocking way this time.

Eddie’s  _ so fucked _ . 

“See you are funny.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” 

The crowd laughs at the person currently up on the little stage, but Eddie can’t help but appreciate the timing. 

“Fuck,” Richie says, the words a whisper rush of breath. “I need a smoke, come outside with me.”

He wants to.

He wants to so fucking bad.

Tries to tell himself that it’s just one night, what’s the worst that can happen.

Richie’s eyes are on him in the low lighting of the comedy club and  _ fuck  _ if Eddie doesn’t want that to mean something. But he can’t take the risk. Can’t bring himself to give in to the urge. 

So instead he says, “It’s too fucking cold.” 

And tries to ignore the hint of disappointment in Richie’s eyes. 

“Yeah, it’s real fucking cold.” 

  
  


*

He keeps coming back.

Again.

And Again.

And Again. 

Week after week. 

Sits through shitty acts that he doesn’t pay attention to, because every time someone new goes on and Richie has to wait before announcing the next act, he slides into the seat by the bar that is next to Eddie’s with some terrible joke of quip made just for him. 

And Eddie tries to tell himself that he’s not falling for this man. 

*

Usually Eddie spends New Year’s at home. Watches the fireworks out from his apartment window, lucky enough to live in a city that celebrates this day with more spirit than anywhere else in the world. 

But the comedy club is doing this New Year’s show that is going to last all night long and last Thursday Richie had leaned too far into Eddie’s space and said, “Come with me,” not as a question but as a statement, and Eddie hadn’t been able to say no. 

Saying  _ no  _ to Richie about anything has become difficult. 

So that’s why he was here, at a party full of strangers, a place he didn’t really want to be at all. Awkward and uncomfortable, nursing a rum and coke and wondering if he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life. 

Everyone was making these jokes that  _ 1999  _ might be the end and Eddie’s anxiety was already on edge processing the idea that the world might just end the second the clock hits midnight.

It doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.

It feels like a risk.

Too much of a risk. 

“Hey, let’s get out of here,” Richie says. 

There’s a soft touch to his voice, like he understands that Eddie is anxious and wants to help calm down. But, fuck it, Eddie knows exactly what he means. He’s not an idiot. Not after so many nights of coming to this shitty comedy club and watching Richie just a bit too closely, close enough to realize that Richie was watching him back.

He’s never done this before.

Never gone back with someone.

Anyone.

But especially not a man.

And he shouldn’t, just thinking about it seems to set off a whole new round of nervous jitters in him. Sure, he plays it off as the cold. Hugging his coat just a little bit tighter and letting Richie tease him about the fact that he’s from  _ Maine  _ and he shouldn’t be  _ this cold _ . 

It’s snowing. 

Snow on New Years.

And a part of Eddie has to laugh for the poor fuckers in their diapers downtown shivering through a snowy New York City New Years Eve. 

He’s always told himself that he was too smart for that. For suffering for hours just to watch the ball drop, when he could be watching it from the comfort of his television, but here and now he doesn’t know how late it is. Just knows the walk from the club to Richie’s apartment is quiet. 

Anticipation.

And nervousness. 

He’s still shaking when they make it inside the building, Richie fumbling for the keys to his door, and - “Fuck, baby, you’re making me all nervous.” 

_ Baby _ . 

“Do you know my name?” 

Richie pauses, finally having gotten the right key in the lock and turns over his shoulder to look at Eddie. “Does it matter?” 

He doesn’t.

_ Fuck _ .

Eddie never bothered to introduce himself and  _ fuck _ \- 

“No,” he says. 

Because this isn’t going to happen again.

Because one night, when the world might be ending anyways, that can’t be too wrong. 

He steps in closer to Richie, and Richie closes the distance between them, kissing him. 

Eddie’s been kissed before. A few times in college by a girlfriend that he wasn’t in love with, another time with a prom date that was just trying to be polite, and before that one time that shouldn’t even count when he and a friend were  _ practicing  _ on each other to be ready for their prom dates. 

When Richie pulls back a little and says, “You’ve done this before, right, baby?” 

He lies. 

And there are fireworks.

And the world doesn’t end. 

And Eddie himself that it’s all going to be okay. 

  
  


*

He doesn’t go back.

He can’t go back. 

He wants to, so fucking bad that it aches, because always he can think about is Richie. 

Richie, who smiled at Eddie, and bought him drinks, and sucked his dick so good that Eddie forgot his own damn name.

Who is probably wondering why he never came back…

He can’t.

Because going back and giving into that impulse means admitting that he might not be as normal as he pretends to be. Eddie knows, of course he fucking knows, he’s known since he was a boy. He knew in college when his gaze lingered on the  _ wrong  _ sort of people. But he can’t.

He’s planned his life out too carefully for this. Eddie knows what he’s supposed to do, the role he’s supposed to play, the nice boring office job, the docile housewife that will eventually keep his home in the suburbs nice and clean and raise their 2.5 children. 

Something like  _ Richie  _ doesn’t fit in that life.

So he doesn’t go back.

Instead he takes himself to a walk in clinic to get tested, holds himself on the verge of a panic attack until his results come back  _ clean _ . 

He vows to himself to never run that risk again.

Never to think about Richie again. 

And within a week, he’s forgotten all about him. 

*

Normal.

Eddie’s going to be normal.

Even if it fucking kills him.

Even if he can’t stand himself, a little and he scrubs his hands until they’re red and raw in the bathroom sink, after everyone one of his  _ dates _ . 

They’re nice girls. 

Sweet. 

The sort of girls that deserve better than someone that can never love them.

He never calls any of them back for a second date. 

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” Eddie tells his therapist, after reporting back on another failed date. He can’t tell her the real reason why all of these dates go wrong, instead tries to believe that she’s right when she insists that his anxiety and hypochondria is what is causing him to be hesitant over the idea of being intimate with a woman.

When Eddie knows the problem is more to do with the idea that the person he would be with is a  _ woman  _ than anything else. 

“Have you ever been intimate with anyone before,” his therapist asks. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

He does.

He feels unclean even just talking about it, but he forces himself to say the words. “There was a girlfriend in college, we made out, she gave me a handjob once, but that was really the most… I couldn’t handle anymore more and…”

He trails off when he sees her taking notes. 

Pushes down the anxiety that rises at the sight of that pencil moving across the paper. 

“Nobody else?” 

Eddie closes his eyes. Tries to remember. He thinks there was another time, where he was drunk, he can almost just remember it, the press of another body too close to his.

A  _ male  _ body. 

But he lies - “No, nobody else.”

*

He can’t sleep.

Another date that’s gone wrong. 

His bed feeling too empty and too crowded all at once, and he’s doing his best to resist the urge to call his therapist, because it’s a Saturday night (or technically a Sunday morning) and he’s not paying her enough to be on call and dealing with his problems. 

He’s not really paying attention.

Too tired and anxious to pay attention.

Flipping through the channels just for something to do, past Law and Order reruns and the other shitty shows that get replayed at one in the morning. 

When he hears it, a familiar voice, a voice he hasn’t heard in nearly a year and - 

It all comes back. 

The terrible anxious feeling slipping away as he watches a familiar face, and Eddie’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be the criminal in this episode, but  _ fuck _ \- 

He’s funny. 

Of course, he’s fucking funny. 

He always has been. 

Only now he’s not standing in some shitty bar.

He’s on Eddie’s TV and… 

His name is a blank space in Eddie’s mind. He should know it. He knows that he fucking should. He can remember the feeling of those hands on his hips, the bruises that lingered for days after, but he can’t remember his fucking name. 

Eddie rises up off the couch, powering up his computer, waiting for the dial tone as it connects to the internet, the skit and  _ that  _ voice is still there as background noise, a  _ reminder _ , as Eddie googles ‘Law and Order guest stars’ trying to find the one name that is familiar.

It takes an hour, combing through episodes titles to try and figure out which one was airing, to find the name of whoever played the criminal of the week, but when he sees it there, Eddie wonders how he ever forgot, voice soft as a whisper, “ _ Richie _ .” 

  
  


*

It feels like fate.

Horrible, tragic fate, a bad fucking decision, but  _ fate _ . 

He’s not sure that compelled him to come out here, but he wasn’t making progress with his therapist, or with any of the women his coworkers tried to set him up with. But he had promised himself an hour, that he would go in, buy a drink, look around for an hour and then never come back to this side of the city again. 

Only he can’t bring himself to drink the beer in his hand.

Can’t bring himself to go out there and dance or talk with any of the guys that are so much more comfortable in their own skin than Eddie is. 

He lasts twenty minutes.

Which Eddie privately counts as a win, even though it wasn’t the full hour that he had promised himself. 

Sets his undrunk beer down on the bar’s counter top, and closes out his tab, tipping a bit too generously and avoiding eye contact with the bartender. 

_ Progress _ . 

It’s fucking progress. 

Even if he sort of feels like he’s going to throw up. 

Except before he can leave and probably do exactly that, there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Eddie only just resists the urge to jump out of his skin when he turns around and finds a face that looks familiar.

It would be a lie to say that  _ that face  _ wasn’t why he was out here.

That seeing Richie on the fucking show hadn’t been a very clear reminder of why none of the women that Eddie had been on dates with lately was doing it for him. 

Richie being  _ here  _ of all the gay bars in the city, that has to be  _ fate  _ right. 

“Fuck, I never do this,” Richie says, voice so familiar. “But I think I recognize you? Can I buy you a drink?”

A part of him wanted to say  _ yes _ .

Another part of him can’t stay here. 

“I was just leaving,” Eddie says. 

“Can I buy you a coffee then,” Richie asks. A desperate hint to his voice. And Eddie wonders if he feels it too. Feels that this reunion is  _ fate _ . 

But no…

Richie doesn’t even really remember him.

Just thinks that he does. 

“What?”

“Coffee? I know this twenty-four hour place just down the street and-”

“Fuck it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

It’s cold outside.

It’s always fucking cold in New York. 

Eddie holds his arms around himself to try and trap the heat, but Richie is there in a fucking flannel even though it’s well into October at this point and - “Aren’t you fucking cold?”

“I’m from Maine,” Richie says. “It’s basically Antarctica.” 

He doesn't say  _ me too  _ even though he could, and instead he says, “Antarctica is in the south, you do know that right?”

“Well, I’m fucking Santa Claus, right? I’d rather be a penguin than Santa Claus.” 

Eddie laughs, because what else is there to do. And Richie grins at him, and it’s been a year and maybe Richie doesn’t really remember him, but he looks so happy to have made Eddie laugh that he lets it slide. Richie holds the door open for him, tells Eddie to grab them a table by the fire so that he can warm up while he goes to order.

“Here, you go, Eds, something to warm you up,” Richie says. 

“It’s Eddie,” he corrects, instinctively. 

“Fuck, I really thought I had it,” Richie groans. “I was so fucking close.”

“Just the wrong nickname, not that far off.” 

“I’d say you could call me some bastardized form of Richard in return, but my fucking agent keeps trying to call me  _ Dick _ , and I can’t handle another fucking little dicky joke, especially when my dicky isn’t even fucking close to  _ little _ .”

“I know,” Eddie says, before he can stop himself. 

And this time Richie is the one that laughs.

And for the first time Eddie can joke about  _ that  _ part of himself without feeling disgust. 

It’s fucking relief.

He takes a sip of his coffee, pleasantly surprised at the taste, “Is this soy?”

“Yeah, you’re allergic to milk or some shit, right? I feel like I knew that for some reason.”

*

He had given Richie his number, because he asked and Eddie’s had been feeling a little bit reckless. A feeling he regrets a bit when his phone rings in the middle of making dinner. He picks it up, expecting someone from work or something not to hear Richie’s voice. 

“Hey, are you busy?” 

He should say yes.

He’s cooking.

And Eddie is all too aware of how a distracted cook could lead to a kitchen fire. Fifteen percent of all fire related deaths start in the kitchen.

But it’s Richie and they’re… Friends or something? Maybe? They could be? 

Eddie wants to them to be so desperately that a part of him aches. 

“No, not at all.” 

“I’ve got an audition tomorrow and it’s nothing big but I’m fucking nervous and… Tell me about your life?”

“I work in insurance, Richie, it’s nothing exciting.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

So he does.

He stirs the pasta with one hand, holds the phone with the older, glad that he invested in one of the long as fuck cords, and tells Richie all about the insurance claims that he has been dealing with. Boring shit, enough to bore a person to sleep, but Richie is still there, making vague noises at the right parts and- 

“Hey, are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

Eddie pauses at Richie’s question. “It’s October.”

“I’m thinking ahead,” Richie replies. “Where is home for you anyways?” 

“Brooklyn?” 

“No, fucking way, you’re a local, Eds.”

“Eddie,” he corrects.

“Answer the fucking question,  _ Eddie _ .” 

“Maine,” Eddie replies. 

Even though he swears that Richie should know this, that he  _ does  _ know this, and tries not to grumble when Richie lets out a faux shocked, “No shit, me too, what are the fucking odds. Hey, you got a car, right? You’re planning on driving back home for- “

“I’m not,” Eddie says. “The last time I was in Maine was for my mom’s funeral. I don’t even plan on going back.”

“Fuck,” Richie says, softly, almost in comfort. 

He purposely doesn’t mention how hard it had been to go back for even that. How he had a panic attack at the border between Maine and New Hampshire and ruled it all down to mourning and trauma, even though that hadn’t felt anything close to the truth.

“So I can’t give you a ride, if that’s what you were swindling me for.” 

Richie makes a non-committal hum. Eddie wishes he was actually hear so that he could see his expression. “I guess that means  _ your mom  _ jokes are off limits, huh?”

“I never fucking liked those jokes anyways.” 

Another hum, before Richie asks, “Hey, Eddie, was your mom hot?” 

“For fuck’s sake,” Eddie says. Focusing on taking his food off of the burner instead of listening to whatever dumb shit Richie is saying now. “Can we stop talking about my mom?”

Eddie braces himself for whatever dumb joke Richie is going to make next. 

Because he knows that he is. 

He feels it like an instinct, even though Richie is more of a stranger than a friend at this point. He just knows. As if there has been people like this before.

But what he’s not expecting is Richie to reply, “Because you know she made a real hot kid.” 

His heart skips a beat in his chest. 

And he forgets to reply.

Pauses for too long because Richie is speaking again, too quick, and too nervous and - “Fuck, sorry, I pushed it too far. Shit, I just, you were at  _ that bar  _ and I felt like we had a connection, but if I’m not your type you can just tell me to shut the fuck up and-”

“I felt it too,” Eddie says. 

_ A connection _ .

_ Fate _ . 

“I’m just scared,” Eddie admits, voice so quiet, as if the whole world could hear him.

“Fuck, me too,” Richie agrees. “But I feel like I don’t have to be scared around you. If that makes any sense?”

It does.

Somehow it does. 

*

He tells his coworkers about this nice woman that he’s seeing.

A  _ lie _ .

Because he can’t admit the alternative.

It may be the 2000s and times may be changing, but he’s still firmly in that closet. Still refusing to even tell his therapist the truth, even though he pays her for her confidentiality. It shouldn’t be this hard. 

But every time he looks in the mirror and tries to form the words to say  _ I’m gay _ , he can’t. 

His throat closes up and…

But when Richie is there in his apartment, tugging Eddie close by his belt loops, kissing him in private because they’re  _ dating  _ and he should be able to kiss his fucking boyfriend. In those moments, when it’s  _ Richie  _ everything seems so easy.

They lay there in Eddie’s bed, and he knows that in an hour Richie will ask to use the shower, and then will try to stay the night, insist that he’ll make breakfast in the morning so that Eddie doesn’t have to stress so much when he gets ready for work.

And Eddie will let him.

Because here in the privacy of his apartment, he feels safe enough to be  _ himself _ . 

But for now… 

For now Richie’s fingertips skim across Eddie’s palm, tracing the scar that has been there as long as Eddie can remember, a deep cut bisecting his hand. The first time Richie had noticed his scar he tried to get Eddie to remember how it happened, but Eddie couldn’t, something from his childhood. A memory forgotten over the years. 

Richie calls it proof that they’re made for each other, their matching scars.

And Eddie swears when he looks at Richie it still feels like  _ fate _ , so he wants to believe him. 

Laces their hands together and says, “You’re staying the night, right?” Even though he knows that it’s not the way this conversation is supposed to play out. That for a moment he’s going off script. 

“If you’ll let me, Eds.”

“Eddie. How many times do I have to fucking remind you,  _ Dicky _ .” 

“Little dicky needs at least twenty minutes before he can go again, baby.” 

“You’re the worst,” Eddie says, but it’s so fucking fond.

Richie squeezes Eddie’s hand, their matching scars lining up for a moment, “Hey, want to shower with me? Save some water? That’s good for the Earth, right?” 

*

Eddie takes Richie to an old school arcade for his birthday.

Keeps his hands by his side, even though he wants to take Richie’s, knows that it isn’t the time or the place. 

Watches as Richie’s eyes light up like a fucking kid in a candy store, and Eddie knows he got something right. 

“I could kiss you right now,” Richie says, a whisper, so fucking happy that Eddie doesn’t want his own insecurities to ruin the mood.

“Later,” Eddie insists. “Tonight. For now…” 

Richie’s eyes fall along the machines. “Fuck, do you think they have Street Fighter? I used to love that game as a kid.” 

They do.

Eddie called four different arcades in the city before finding one that did. He hadn’t been sure why, maybe it was something Richie had mentioned offhand once, but he had known that it was important to find an arcade with that specific game in it. 

“Of course, they fucking do.” 

*

Richie’s apartment is a shithole. 

Which is why they’re normally at Eddie’s and he knows that it’s part of the whole starving actor aesthetic. That Richie has to live in a shitty apartment with three other people to build character or some shit, but Eddie has a perfectly good apartment with no chance of catching some disease just walking into the kitchen. 

“Move in with me,” Eddie says. Mostly because he can’t stand being here any longer.

Richie looks so fucking surprised that a part of Eddie aches. 

“You sure that’s not moving too fast?” 

“We’ve been together for over a year, Rich.”

“I know, but you’re still… You know.” 

_ In the closet _ . 

Probably would be until he died, because he’s a fucking coward and he knows that one day this is going to be a problem for them. That it’s really just a ticking time bomb. 

“I’ll be fine,” Eddie insists. “We can tell people you’re my roommate.”

“I don’t usually  _ fuck  _ my roommates.” 

“Usually.”

“I mean, if the opportunity presented itself-”

“Beep beep, Richie.”

Richie pauses, gives him a little shocked look and says, “Fuck, who did you pick that up from? I’m going to fucking kill them.” 

Eddie’s not sure, probably one of Richie’s current roommates, or one of his acting friends. So Eddie just shrugs. “It got you to shut up, didn’t it?” 

“There’s other ways to get me to shut up.” 

“Like what,” Eddie asks, “You never fucking stop talking.” 

Richie kisses him as if to prove a point. 

And Eddie lets himself melt a little into the kiss.

Here in private, with none of Richie’s roommates around, he feels that he can act a little bit recklessly.

“I feel like I need to fuck you on this couch one last time before we say goodbye to it.” 

Not  _ that  _ reckless. 

“I’m actually asking you to move in with me so I never have to look at this disgusting couch again.”

“Fuck, I love you,” Richie says.

So easy.

But Eddie can’t bring himself to say it back. 

“How soon do you think you could move out?”

*

He tells himself that he’s getting better at this. 

That this is progress. 

He tells his therapist about his  _ roommate  _ for two weeks in a row before slipping up, and he doesn’t take it back. Counts it as progress when she doesn’t give him a disapproving look and just asks him if things are easier with Richie.

Of course, they are.

Everything is easier with Richie.

Falling asleep next to Richie, waking up to him burning their breakfast time and time again. The two of them squished too close on Eddie’s couch watching whatever show Richie is guest starring in this week, just trying to get his face out there and… 

Eddie goes to all of Richie’s open nights, all of his improv groups, sits in the back and watches. Waits, until the after party, when they’re surrounded by people who get it, and Richie flings an arm over Eddie’s shoulders and calls him his  _ boyfriend _ . 

And for a few minutes the word doesn’t seem so awful. 

It’s New Year’s Eve again. 

Their third one together at this point. 

Time always seems to move quicker whenever he’s with Richie, as if the universe was rushing them towards something important. 

And Richie kisses him, there in front of friends and strangers, at midnight, with the fireworks going off in the background, and Eddie decides that nothing else matters more than this. 

*

“It’s just an audition, I might not even get it and-”

“Of course, you’re going to fucking get it,” Eddie reassures him. “You’re incredible, the funniest person I know, and they’d be a fool not to take you with how good your impressions are.”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” Richie says. 

And he sort of looks like he might. 

Eddie steers him towards their bathroom. Sits down on the tile, while Richie hunches over the toilet until he’s dry heaving and there are tears in his eyes. So fucking nervous. 

Richie always gets like this before auditions. The cocky demeanor shifting away for a few minutes to show something so honest and real that Eddie doesn’t always know how to process it. 

Scared.

Like a scared little kid.

And Eddie feels like he’s seen this look before. 

Ages ago. 

“I’m going to fuck this up,” Richie says, voice shaking. “This is fucking SNL, this is bigger than any of the auditions I’ve had before, and I’ve fucked plenty of those up, so I’m going to fuck this up and-”

Eddie hands him a water bottle. “No, you won’t.” 

“I might.” 

“If you do, I’ll still be here,” Eddie says. “I’ll always be here.” 

Richie cracks the seal on the water bottle, but doesn’t drink it. Just looks up at Eddie with a pale and almost desperate look and says, “You promise right?” 

*

Richie gets the job.

Of course, he does.

Eddie never doubted for a minute.

Richie tells him with the tale later, how for his audition he panicked, and did an impression of Eddie to get the job. They all found it hilarious, his talent when it came to voices and impressions. They’re signing him on as a junior cast member, but if he does his time and plays his cards right… 

“So many of the big names got their starts here,” Richie says, fingers drumming against his celebratory wine glass. “This is the shit that’s going to make people pay attention to me.”

“Of course they will,” Eddie says. “I mean, I googled it and you’re going to be the first gay actor on SNL since Sweeney, that alone is going to mean so much to so many people and-”

“Actually, about that…” 

*

“This is my roommate, Eddie,” Richie introduces him all his cast mates, all his new actor friends the same way. 

Roommate. 

He was the one that said it first ages ago, but it was different. Eddie had always been the hesitant one. The one that goes to therapy and still is working through his issues. Whereas Richie… As long as he had known Richie, the other man had been out and loud and never the type to shy away from a chance to be just a little bit crude. 

But now, they’re at a party and he’s watching his  _ boyfriend  _ pretend to flirt with some female cast mate and… 

He knows he’s being hypocritical.

His coworkers don’t know about Richie, but that’s different. His coworkers are baby boomers in business suits that wouldn’t hesitate to fire him for his sexuality. He can’t fix their backwards minds, no matter how many times he considered saying something so casual, outing himself as if it isn’t a big deal at all. 

He doesn’t.

Instead he makes excuses not to go to Richie’s shows.

Pours himself into his work until he gets another promotion, works enough overtime that he starts to forget why the feeling of coming back to an empty apartment is such a terrible one. 

Until he can’t.

It’s Friday night, getting closer and closer to midnight, and Richie should either be at home asleep or out with his  _ friends _ , so Eddie really doesn’t expect that when he opens the door to find Richie sitting there on the couch, staring at a turned off tv with that horrible pale look on his face. 

“You’re home late,” Richie says. 

Voice a little smaller than Eddie ever remembers it being. 

“Figured you’d be out with friends,” Eddie says. “I had a work thing.” 

“Your coworkers still think I’m some girl that you’re too shy to bring to work functions.” 

He’s tired.

He doesn’t want to have this fight. 

Not when it’s hypocritical of both of them.

Not when he knows that Richie is just anxious about his show and trying to distract himself by making Eddie upset with him. He doesn't want to rise to the bait. Knows that it isn’t worth it. 

“I’m not in the mood to fight with you, Richie,” Eddie says. “Just go the fuck to sleep.” 

“You know, I can’t fucking do that.” 

He knows.

“I don’t know what you want me to do about that,” but he still lies.

“Eds-”

“It’s  _ Eddie _ , how many times do I fucking have to…” 

He trails off.

It’s not worth the fight.

Not when Richie already looks like shit. 

Any other night he might have turned to comfort him.

To remind Richie that he has nothing to worry about. 

That nobody is going to hate him.

But tonight he can’t bring himself to say the words.

Not when he’s not sure that they would be true. 

“Well, I’m going to sleep.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Yeah, you too, baby.”

*

“I have this recurring nightmare,” he explains to his therapist. “It feels more like a memory than a dream. Normally you forget dreams when you wake up, but I always remember and…”

He looks up at her, the way her pen hovers just above the notebook page.

He bought a book on dream meanings, but none of it made any fucking sense. 

“I’m in my childhood bedroom, and there’s someone knocking on my window, trying to get in, but it’s a monster or anything. I know that the person out there is a friend, but for some reason I can’t open the window and let them in… And eventually, they just leave.” 

Eventually  _ he  _ just leaves. 

  
  


*

They’re going downtown to try and watch the ball drop with some of Richie’s work friends. Someone knows someone who has a hotel that you can see the ball from, but it’s a long walk and - “It’s fucking cold.” 

It’s a thing with them.

An old joke at this point.

Richie is supposed to laugh it off, tell Eddie to tough it up, but this time he turns around , a disapproving look on his face, and says words that cut like a knife. “Then go the fuck home, Eds.” 

It’s harsh.

And his little actor friends laugh.

And fuck, Eddie knows he’s drunk, but it hurts.

It hurts so fucking much. 

And it’s so  _ fucking  _ cold. 

“Fine,” Eddie says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He sees it. A moment there where Richie hesitates. The moment when everything starts to fall apart. The point of no return. 

But someone makes a joke to just leave his  _ roommate  _ behind, and when Eddie turns away Richie doesn’t follow him. 

He moves on autopilot.

Taking the train home.

Packing his bag.

Writing a letter that he knows isn’t going to be enough of an explanation. 

He has the strangest sense of deja vu as he sets the pen down. 

He’s running away.

He ran away before.

He’ll probably run away again. 

In the cab, the fireworks go off, welcoming them all into another year. Eddie’s eyes blur as the tears finally come. 

*

He gets a smaller apartment this time.

Homey.

Just made for  _ one  _ person. 

Buys a couple of houseplants and doesn’t turn on the TV on Saturday nights, until he forgets the reason why.

*

Her name is Myra.

She’s a friend of a friend and she fusses over him the first time they meet. He’s complaining about the cold, and she wraps a scarf around his neck, asks if he’s sure that he’s not anemic, or if he’s been tested for poor circulation, before rattling off a list of doctors that she has heard good things about.

She reminds him of his mother.

He hates that he finds that comforting. 

She scrambles for a piece of paper to write her number down, says that he should call her if he needed any more recommendations. He doesn’t really. But he calls her anyways, desperate for something that feels a little bit familiar. 

He’s always been drawn to people that remind him of home. 

And she doesn’t mind that he isn’t comfortable having sex with her, says that saving it for marriage is a good thing, that way they both know that they’re  _ clean _ . Fusses over him as if he’s some sort of delicate virginal thing. 

And Eddie lets her, even if it’s a little bit of a lie. 

Tells himself that over time he could fall for her. 

That he can imagine a life with her and house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and the 2.5 children.

That  _ normal  _ doesn’t have to be such an impossible thing.

*

They’re out for dinner, another date that just doesn’t feel quite right.

He’s splurged, taken them out somewhere expensive, because that was what you were supposed to do. Sure, Eddie knew how to play the part. How to talk shop with the guys in the office, get recommendations for where to take his lady friend out to. 

And Myra likes it.

Or at least she pretends to very well.

God, they’ve both gotten really fucking good at pretending. 

She’s telling him something, sometimes important or maybe not at all, something she heard on the news this morning, some incurable disease that is spreading through some third world country. Normally the sort of thing that would kick his anxiety into overdrive, but for a second he’s not listening to her. 

His gaze is fixed instead on another couple. 

A man and a woman.

Completely unfamiliar to him.

But there’s something about the bright red of the woman’s hair that catches Eddie’s gaze and makes him unwilling to look away. She’s not important. Not really. But it’s enough that a moment later Myra is turning around in her seat - so fucking obvious, not a woman with much tact - her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Jealousy it would have been called on any other woman. 

“Do you know them?” 

He doesn’t know for sure.

Is almost certain that he does not. 

But some part of him thinks that he must. 

Still when Myra turns back around her questioning gaze lingering on him, Eddie shakes his head, “I thought the man looked like a former client of mine, but I was mistaken.” 

Myra turns once more looking over the two, with very mild interest, and adds, “I think the woman is an actress, she was in a movie I watched, I just know it.” 

He’s not sure. 

That doesn’t feel quite right.

So he takes another sip of wine and says, “Tell me about it again? Was it malaria?” 

*

“What do you mean? You can’t remember which brand of soy milk is on recall?”

He feels it, the anxiety bubbling up in his chest, standing there in the middle of the grocery store. His therapist taught him how to work through this, to breathe in and breathe out, and remember that there’s always a  _ third  _ option. 

Myra is prattling something in his ear, trying to find the article she read. 

But Eddie doesn’t let her finish, just sighs - “I’m just going to get almond milk.” 

“That has almonds in it,” she says, voice tight and stressed. “What if we invite someone over who has a nut allergy?”

He moves the milk into the cart, one little act of protest, and replies, “Then we won’t offer them any milk.”

“I don’t know, Edward, just give me a second and I’ll-”

He hangs up the phone without waiting for her reply. There’s going to be hell to pay for that later. He knows, but sometimes he just needs a little break. He’ll make some excuse, bad service or something, and she’ll pretend to believe it and they’ll be fine. Just like she’s still pretending to believe that one day he’s going to propose to her. 

He moves the cart to the checkout aisle busies himself with focusing on the magazines line up on the display, resists the urge to buy another pack of gum by skimming the headlines. Movies coming out, celebrity break ups and make ups, someone having a secret baby and…

He freezes. 

The headline shouldn’t mean much, the blurry photo of some actor and what is clearly a hooker. Everyone knows better than to believe the headlines of Star magazine. Eddie knows half of this shit is just nonsense meant to sell magazines to teenage girls. 

But instead of moving on like he has with all the rest he grabs the magazine. 

It’s a blurry shape, you could hardly tell that it was meant to be the actor in question, unless… You already knew what they looked like, the shape of the body, the way their body moves when intimately close with another and  _ fuck _ \- 

The headline reads  _ Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier spotted at Las Vegas Strip Club _ , and despite Eddie insisting that up until this moment he wouldn’t have been able to pick Tozier out of a crowd, in a second he knows that this is the one headline that Star magazine has gotten right. 

“You gonna buy that,” the teenage cashier asks, thumb jerking to the magazine in Eddie’s hand, and he nearly drops it, caught off guard so suddenly. 

“It’s for my girlfriend,” Eddie says.

Quickly.

Too quickly.

Stressing the word  _ girlfriend  _ just a bit too much.

But the kid doesn’t care, rings him up all the same, and Eddie hides the magazine under the passenger seat of his car. In a place that he knows Myra won’t bother to look. Like a dirty little secret of his own. 

*

He stays in the shower too long. 

Myra’s knocked on the door twice, worried about him, fretting over the health hazards of a long shower, but Eddie can’t bring himself to set away from the water. It's too hot, burning at his skin, marking him red.

But he’s still not clean enough.

He feels sick.

And dirty.

And hates himself a little. 

Not because he…. He’s made peace with that a while ago, locked it away and called it a phase. But because of  _ him _ , of a face that is so familiar that Eddie had seen him in his dreams, even if up until now Eddie couldn’t remember his name.

Now though, he wonders how he ever forgot.

How was  _ Richie Tozier  _ not imprinted on his very soul. 

*

He googles him later, when Myra is out with friends, when Eddie finally feels safe enough to type the name  _ Richie Tozier  _ into google. He shifts through paparazzi photos, through Getty Images, not sure exactly what he is looking for.

Until he finds it.

A picture dated back to  _ 2004 _ labelled -  _ Tozier and a friend _ . 

A friend. 

Staring back from the screen, disgruntled to have had his picture taken by some paparazzi, wearing a coat that was too big and insulated for the early autumn in New York City, is none other than his own face. 

Looking at the picture he can remember the moment clearly. 

The way Richie had offered his hand, but Eddie has shied away, pointing out the cameras that had started watching them more and more often since Richie started on SNL. 

There’s more pictures like that.

Dozens of them.

Of  _ a friend _ . 

Maybe that’s all they ever should have been. 

Clearly Richie was more than happy to spend his night with hookers, and Eddie… Eddie was going to propose soon (eventually) (probably), and marry Myra, and get a house in the suburbs, have a kid and teach him not to run too fast so that he doesn’t get hurt, and… 

He shouldn’t look it up.

Shouldn’t care. 

But someone posted bits of Richie’s stand up, a little crude and awful, but classic  _ Richie  _ with a link to where he performs on Friday nights. In one of the video’s Richie laughs awkwardly with the crowd and says ‘ _ I always hated Fridays before this _ ’, and Eddie knows he’s heard those words before. 

In what feels like another life. 

He goes before he can second guess himself.

Myra will be out late with her book club and he knows that he should be working… But the temptation is right there. He knows there’s no guarantee, and a part of him hopes that the information will be wrong. That for once Richie won’t show up.

That Eddie will show up show up at some shitty bar, watch some shitty comedians, and then leave with nothing more coming from it. 

So he goes.

He orders a drink that he doesn’t plan on drinking.

And sticks close to the bar. 

And waits for that familiar - “Hey? I think I know you?”

Eddie sighs.

Tells himself that it’s  _ fate _ , that it always has been, and replies, “Yeah, I think I know you too.”

A grin, that’s he’s missed without even knowing he was supposed to miss. “Fuck, Eddie, right? It’s been ages.” 

*

Richie meets up with him during the week, when Eddie has an hour for lunch break, and Richie swears he knows this great little restaurant down the street from Eddie’s work. And they’re just  _ friends,  _ barely even that really, catching up on old times. 

The last few years have treated Richie good. Sure, Eddie did his googling, knows that Richie has had plenty of acting opportunities, and has moved up the ranks on SNL. No more panic attacks over auditions to play suspect number four. At least, not any where the public could see them. 

There’s color to his face that hadn’t been there the last time they had seen each other, and while Richie still seems to dress in whatever free t-shirts he can find, he doesn’t look terrible. He looks put together. 

They’ve both moved on. 

But fuck sitting here across from Richie, watching as he  _ still  _ doesn’t know how to use chopsticks, it feels like time hasn’t moved on at all. 

“But you’ve been good, right,” Richie asks, after dropping his piece of sushi again. “I mean, all things considered?” 

“I’m doing great. Work is good, my apartment is nice, I’ve gotten a few plants recently-” 

“You always did seem more like a plant dad than a pet dad,” Richie replies. 

“And I-” He knows that this is when he should mention Myra. But looking at Richie he suddenly can’t find the words. “I’m good.”

“That’s good,” Richie says. 

And he sounds like he really fucking means it. 

“Hey, Eddie, can we do this again sometime? I mean, assuming we’re both not crazy busy with work. I’ve missed you. I mean, I sort of forgot all about you until you were there at my show,” Richie says with a little awkward laugh. “But then you were there and… I’ve missed you.” 

It’s a weird sentiment.

And someone else might have been offended.

But Eddie sort of knows the feeling. 

“Sure, why the fuck not.” 

*

“I know this sounds dumb,” Richie says. Stealing one of Eddie’s fries. They’re still doing this whole lunch thing, as friends, just friends getting lunch. “But it’s like, when you weren’t here you didn’t exist at all, but now that you’re back, all I can think about is you.” 

And fuck, does Eddie know the feeling. 

The way it lingers deep inside of him.

As if just seeing Richie brings on the sudden sense of deja vu. 

“It’s fucking weird,” Richie says. 

As if he is an authority on such matters.

Eddie nods, agreeing easily, “It’s fucking weird.” 

*

He wakes up to the sound of his phone going off. 

The all too loud buzzing of his phone on the nightstand, louder and louder so that he cannot ignore it. Spam callers normally didn’t bother in the early hours of the morning, his mother is dead and his girlfriend is sleeping as far from him as possible on the bed that they share, and if it was work well… They could wait until it wasn’t two in the morning on a  _ Sunday _ .

As his phone starts up it’s vibrations for the third time in a row, unwilling to risk waking Myra, Eddie shifts in place to grab his phone off of the nightstand, wincing in the brightness as he checks the caller ID.

The second Eddie does he is bolting up out of bed, scrambling indelicately out of the room, and down the hall before he snaps his phone open and - “Richie?” 

“Eds, fuck,” Richie’s voice is slurred.

Drunk.

He’s calling Eddie at two in the morning and he’s drunk and Eddie knows that he should hang up. Go back to his loveless bed and go to sleep, but something keeps him there, the soft way Richie’s breath seems to catch across the line. 

“I didn’t think you would answer.” 

“I was asleep,” Eddie replies. “I shouldn’t have answered.”

“Fuck, what time is it?”

“Go to sleep, Richie.”

“Can’t,” Richie mumbles across the line. “I’m not home.”

“Call a cab then.”

“I’m here.” 

“What?”

“Here?”

“Where?”

“Look out your window, dickhead.” 

“Wait, you’re at my apartment? How the fuck did you even-”

“Eddie,” Richie cuts him off with a whine, “Eddie, baby, I don’t know what number to press for your apartment, and I’m about to press every fucking one unless you get down here and-”

“Fucking hell, Rich. I’m in my pajamas.”

“You still wear those fucking matching flannel shit?” 

Eddie glances down at himself, a matching set of blue plaid flannel pajamas. 

“Maybe,” Eddie says. Knowing he has no time to change. Knowing that he really shouldn’t go downstairs. “It gets cold in the winter.” 

“You’re from fucking  _ Maine _ ,” Richie tells him. 

Eddie toes on a pair of shoes, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder, “If I’m coming down there you’re not allowed to make fun of my pajamas.” 

“They’re fucking hot, Eds,” Richie tells him. And Eddie can’t tell if he is joking or not. “You’re so fucking functional, with your fucking pajamas, put the rest of us to shame.” 

“Hold on, the phone’s going to cut out in the elevator.” 

“You’re actually coming down?” 

He hates it a little, the shocked tone to Richie’s voice, as if he wouldn’t do just about  _ everything  _ for this man. How could Richie not know the effect that he had on Eddie? How every time he appeared, again and again, Eddie could only find himself drawn closer and closer to him. LIke a moth to a flame.

And fuck he knows better.

He knows he could turn his phone off right now.

Go back to bed. 

And his life would go on. 

A nice, normal life, that may not be happy but it wouldn’t be  _ terrible  _ either. 

Didn’t he deserve something like mediocrity?

But the universe, the fates, pull in mysterious ways, and the idea of going in any direction other than  _ towards  _ Richie seems wrong.

So he takes the elevator down. 

Crosses the lobby in two steps and.- 

“Hey?”

“Hey.”

He’s not sure who moves first, not sure it even matters, because they’re a magnetic force pulling each other in, but one second they’re both standing there and the next he’s kissing Richie (or fuck, maybe Richie’s kissing him), but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters other than the feeling of Richie’s lips against his. The way Richie holds onto his stupid flannel pajamas a little too tight to keep him in place. The way in one second Eddie feels more passion than he has felt in years and - 

“Oh god.” 

“Guess who got fired from SNL for saying  _ fuck  _ on live tv?”

“Fuck, Richie, are you serious?”

With their faces this close together, there’s no way he can miss the hint of sadness and regret in Richie’s eye. He’s serious. He’s falling apart. No wonder he had sounded drunk. Sure, he’s had a few too many to drink but now Eddie can see that the red at the edges of his eyes is something else entirely. 

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, I fucked up,” Richie says, “But I’m not going to fuck this up.”

The words burn like a promise and when Richie kisses him again, Eddie doesn’t pull back even though he knows that he should. 

Even though his hands burn like fire from where he’s holding Richie close. 

Even though all he can think about is how they’re out in public and how anyone could see them at any moment. 

Even though - “I’m seeing someone, she’s upstairs and-”

“ _ She _ ,” Richie says, the word feels wrong on his tongue. “Didn’t think you were the type, Eds-”

“Beep Beep, Richie.”

*

He breaks up with Myra.

Doesn’t say  _ why _ .

Can’t explain it. 

She thinks it’s another woman, and fuck she’s so close to being right that he almost tells her. But instead he smiles a thin little smile, and says that he’s moving out, that he’ll pay the next two months of rent until she can find a place of her own.

Two months from now, he’ll be in a different city.

Be a different person.

A small part of him thinks,  _ knows _ , that if it weren’t for Richie he would have stayed here with her, unhappy for the rest of his life, however short that may have been.

But it’s 2008, and all he can think is  _ Richie, Richie, Richie  _ so he leaves. 

*

“LA, the city of dreams,” Richie says, spreading a map out over the floor of his apartment.

It had been their apartment for a little bit.

And once, a long time ago. 

Eddie had forgotten, wouldn’t have been able to remember the street address had anyone ever asked him, but the second he had moved back in after his quick split from Myra he fell right back into place easily. 

Remembering exactly what floorboards squeaked when he stepped on them the wrong way, and how to mix cold and hot water together to make the sink spit out something close to lukewarm water. 

“It’s about a week drive,” Richie continues. 

He’s leaving. 

His agent thinks that there is better business there and he’s probably right. Eddie should let him go, knows that this is the way for the world for the two of them, but Richie had pointed out that surely there were insurance companies in LA. And despite the fact that Eddie was a New York City man through and through by this point, something had convinced him that going with Richie was the right choice. 

He knows that it’s reckless, maybe a mistake.

He’s two promotions away from making the board. 

But Richie had always inspired recklessness in him.

(Or maybe, just maybe, it had been the way his voice had shook just a little when he made a joke about Richie forgetting him once he was famous, and that honest genuine fear in Richie’s eyes that that might actually happen. 

They’d both been a little tipsy, and it had been late, but when Richie had asked, “Why does it feel like any second we’re apart that I’m already starting to forget you?” 

Eddie hadn’t known how to answer him.)

He’s helping Richie pack. 

Carefully putting all of his things away.

Richie has a habit of recklessly tossing things in boxes, something that will come back to bite him in the ass when they move into their much smaller LA apartment. Eddie, on the other hand, has a careful and delicate sorting process. 

Currently that has him sorting through Richie’s collection of books.

Despite Richie’s constant jokes about not being able to read, he has a sizable collection, most are books that Eddie is familiar with. Ones that he might have even left behind all those years ago.

But one book gives him pause. 

He stares down at the cover, trying to remember if the books was one of his or one of Richie’s own, the cover of _ Attic Room  _ stares back up at him. 

Almost daring him to open the pages. 

Richie looks up from his packing to glance at what had given Eddie pause, “God, that book sucks, Eds.” 

“You’ve read it?”

“All but the last chapter, that fucker can’t right endings.” 

Eddie thumbs through the pages, catching on the part where Richie had stopped, right before the end, there nestled in the pages is an old polaroid that RIchie must have been using as a bookmark. 

The picture catches Eddie off guard.

Because the picture is of  _ him _ . 

But when he was a kid.

Long before he would have ever known Richie.

It’s only looking at the picture does Eddie remember the moment. 

The little boy in the picture smiles too wide, with a broken arm (though Eddie couldn’t remember how he broke it, maybe a biking accident, they always did bike a little too fast down those hills), and a fanny pack that looks bright even in the faded colors of the polaroid. There’s another boy next to him, a childhood friend, with taped up glasses, though Eddie couldn’t have remembered his name if his life depended on it. 

It’s an odd thing to use as a bookmark.

He must have left it behind when they broke up, and for some reason Richie had kept the photo, had used it as a bookmark after all these years. 

Eddie can’t help but feel a little jealous of his thirteen year old self, having been able to spend all this time with Richie, while he was far away. 

He slips the photo out of the book, puts it in the pocket of his coat instead, and packs the book away without a second thought. It’s not as though Richie will miss the photo. He probably doesn’t even remember that it was there. 

“Six days to get to LA? I bet we could do it in five.” 

*

Their place in LA has two seperate bedrooms.

Because they’re friends.

_ Roommates  _ if anyone asks. 

Not that anyone does.

And sure, more often than not, Richie ends up in Eddie’s room, pressed too close, desperate and falling apart and so  _ fucking  _ close that Eddie can’t imagine being anywhere else.

He doesn’t want to. 

They settle into a routine.

Friends with benefits.

Eddie gets a job, well above entry level, makes some excuse at the office that his ex-girlfriend claimed the East Coast so he had to come out West. They all nod in pleasant understanding, nobody thinking twice to question him.

And at night, Eddie pulls on a light jacket and ends up at whatever comedy club Richie’s latest gig is at.

He’s getting bigger and bigger now, more of a following, people taking to the idea of a comedian so crude that he was fired from SNL.

Richie’s jokes are tasteless, and crass, and - “Not yours.” 

It’s after one of the shows.

They’re at fucking In N Out of all places.

Richie flipping through flashcards of jokes someone else wrote for him. 

“I wasn’t writing my own stuff on SNL,” Richie points out, his animal style fries grown cold between them. 

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“Not really.” 

This is the point where Eddie is supposed to say that  _ it is  _ because this discussion has become a routine for them. Instead, he fails to play his role, and when Richie looks at him again it is with a look of mild surprise. 

“I just miss…”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to.

Richie knows.

“It’s what makes the money, Eds.”

“And that’s all that matters?”

“Right now? It has to be.” 

A routine.

It’s all a fucking routine. 

*

They’re at a party.

Richie knows someone.

An actor or something. 

For a while Eddie had been shuffled around, playing nice and making small talk, until someone realized that he wasn’t anyone important. Not an actor, but at least not press. A delicate middle ground.

There had been a bit of time where Eddie had made small talk with an actress named Audra, who had smiled at him and nodded along and mentioned vaguely that he reminded her of her husband - a man who had been smart enough to remain home for the evening instead of mingling with the Hollywood crowd - though had carefully remarked that while Eddie talked fast, her husband talked slow, but that their  _ accent  _ was familiar. 

Eddie had laughed at that, the crazy notion of it all, and asked, “Is he from Maine too?” 

But Audra couldn’t remember, they apparently weren’t the type to talk about their childhoods, and before long she had moved onto talking to someone else. 

The space that she vacates is filled quickly enough. 

This time by a man with a charming smile, the type that Eddie gets all too often at these Hollywood parties. 

Despite the fact that Eddie is not technically  _ out,  _ he’s not really in the closet either. That was the wonderful thing about moving to LA, he could reinvent himself, a brand new person. And if men at bars or parties saw through whatever walls Eddie tried to put up, who was he to turn down a mild flirtation. 

He knows it won’t last.

The man across from him is taking acting classes, and will be bored the second Eddie informs him that he doesn’t actually work in the industry. 

But it doesn’t matter.

Because for a moment Eddie enjoys the attention. 

That is until there’s a hand low on his back, sudden and Eddie would startle away from the hand were it not for the familiar voice that comes a moment later - “Hey baby, who is your new friend?” 

The guy in front of him backs down in a second, hands up in a peace offering, “Fuck, man, I didn’t know.” 

“It’s fine,” Eddie tells him. Even if all Eddie can really focus on is Richie’s hand steady on his back. 

“Well, now you know,” Richie says, voice tight.

“Fuck, I-”

“It’s fine,” Eddie repeats. “It was nice meeting you.” 

He waves the guy off - Ryan, or Riker or something not important - because the only important person is  _ Richie _ . 

“I didn’t realize I was taken,” Eddie says. Pointedly, because they’ve been doing everything to avoid putting a label on it, and he  _ knows  _ that Richie is still anxious about how the industry would treat him if they knew what team he bats for. 

“You are,” Richie says. A stubborn set to his voice. “We are, fuck, Eddie-”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

There’s no tipping point.

Not exactly.

But as they stumble together, so desperate to kiss each other that they can’t keep their hands off each other in the elevator up to their apartment. 

And somewhere hours later in the aftermath, Richie drawing small circles onto Eddie’s back with his fingertips, that he asks, voice small and unsure - “Can we try dating each other again? Because, fuck, Eddie, I can’t imagine doing any of this without you.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie replies. 

He can’t imagine there ever would have been another answer.

*

“So, gay marriage was recently legalized in New York,” Richie says. 

Casual.

Almost indifferent.

Except there’s a crowd waiting for the punchline.

And Eddie in the audience knows the moment that Richie is going off script. 

“I know it’s a whole mess in California, which fucking sucks by the way, I can’t go to a party without getting hit on and I mean -  _ look at me _ , if your standards are  _ this  _ low,” Richie jokingly grimaces. “But we can’t figure out how to make marriage legal, dumb as fuck.”

That gets a laugh.

But Eddie can’t laugh.

He’s holding his breath and waiting and watching. 

“The real question is when is gay marriage going to be legal in Vegas. Because I think we deserve to screw our lives over by letting an Elivs impersonator proclaim us husband and husband just as much as any straight couple.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Where in the future people will laugh.

Because Richie just came out.

And his audience doesn’t know how to handle this plot twist.

But Richie, wouldn’t be Richie, if he didn’t barrel on anyways, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary at all - “Honestly, the fact that some dude dressed as Elvis hasn’t married me off yet is truly a let down and probably the reason my mother won’t return any of my class. She always did have a weird Elvis kink.” 

*

“How bad is it?”

“Don’t go online,” Eddie tells him. 

Richie grimaces, rolling over in their bed, hiding himself under their blankets, “Give me a reason not to, Eds.”

*

He tries the word out for the first time at work, casually slips  _ boyfriend  _ into the conversation, and nobody seems startled at all. They just continue on with the conversation as if he had said nothing out of the ordinary at all. 

So he says it again and again.

Until  _ boyfriend  _ is the easiest word he’s ever said.

*

“What would your parents say? You know, about us?”

Richie shrugs. 

They’re having a fine dinner of cold pizza and watching whatever is new on Netflix.

It’s not  _ Netflix and chill _ ing but it has the potential to be later.

“They’re in Portland, and they don’t pay attention to me anymore,” Richie says. “Like they’re not bad people, we’re just not close. I called them last year I think, it was awkward.”

In all their years together Eddie could safely say that he’s never met Richie’s parents. Though if he thinks hard enough he swears he can imagine their faces, the tone of voice that they might have once said his name, distant but not terrible people. 

Richie didn’t know what a lucky lot in life that was. 

“What about you,” Richie asks. 

“My mom’s dead.”

“I know but-”

“She would have hated you.”

_ She did _ , a part of his mind supplies. 

Which is dumb because she died without ever knowing about this part of Eddie’s life. And somehow that feels like it was for the best. 

“God, I can just hear that,” Richie says. Slipping into one of his  _ voices  _ that does sound startling close to Eddie’s mother’s voice. “You’re not good for my delicate little Edward.” 

“Fuck you, I’m not delicate.” 

“I don’t know… Last night…”

Richie’s eyebrow waggle is perhaps one of the worst things about him. 

“There’s a difference between being  _ overstimulated  _ and  _ delicate _ .” 

*

Richie goes on tour.

Eddie watches his LA show, celebrates with him by blowing him in the dressing room after the show, but then Richie boards a plane to Reno and Eddie stays behind because he’s got work to do and can’t spend  _ months  _ flying around the country with Richie listening to him tell the same bad jokes over and over again. 

It’s only a few months.

And at first it’s rough.

They call each other nearly every night, Richie’s voice breaking over the line from  _ nerves  _ some nights and for a desperation to have someone that is thousands of miles away from him other nights. 

But then he gets so busy with work.

And Richie has after parties to go to and they just…

They don’t mean to make it a thing, but they stop calling, and then the texts become more and more sporadic, and when a coworker asks Eddie how his  _ boyfriend _ ’s tour is going Eddie looks at her in mild confusion and surprise for two minutes before it clicks that she is asking about  _ Richie _ . 

Not knowing how to answer her makes it worse. 

He texts Richie that night to check in, but never get a reply. 

But Richie’s busy.

And he doesn’t call. 

And the fact that he takes two days to reply doesn’t feel odd at all, because by the time those two days have rolled around Eddie forgets that he texted him at all. A weird back and forth phone tag where until he wakes up to a message from Richie, it’s as if, for a moment he had forgotten that Richie even existed at all. 

Were it not for the alert on his phone, he might have forgotten to get Richie from the airport. He hadn’t even realized that his tour was over, that Richie was coming back so soon, but he makes excuses to leave work early and ends up sitting there in his car at the LAX pick up zone feeling so bad. 

Guilt.

And wrong.

There was something wrong with him.

Though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. 

It was as if, a part of him, didn’t exist when Richie wasn’t around, and that he didn’t even realize he was missing this part of himself. Which was absurd. And irrational. And really he probably just  _ missed  _ Richie, but…

When Richie steps out of the airport, and doesn’t recognize Eddie’s car until he gets out and waves him down… It feels like something is wrong. 

They kiss like reunited lovers, like a few months was nothing at all, but on the drive back to their apartment Richie says, “I forgot what color your car was, isn’t that fucking dumb?” 

And Eddie  _ aches _ . 

  
  


*

“I don’t want to be a bad boyfriend, or a  _ person _ , but sometimes when Richie goes away, it’s as if my mind forgets he exists at all,” Eddie tells his therapist, because who else can he talk to about this.

Not Richie.

He feels bad enough as it is. 

“I know that doesn’t make any sense,” Eddie insists, at her confused expression.

“Are you still taking your anxiety medication?”

“Of course.”

Eddie doesn’t miss a dose. 

Usually Richie is impressed with Eddie’s ability to down a shot glass full of pills and vitamins without a second thought. Partly because he says that it means Eddie is good at swallowing. Partly because Richie can only manage to take tiny pills and otherwise sticks to liquid cough syrup whenever he’s sick. 

“Have you considered that this might be a way of coping with missing someone?”

But it’s not  _ someone _ , it’s just  _ Richie _ .

Richie is the only one Eddie ever forgets. 

But he doesn’t say that.

He can’t.

He knows he’ll sound insane. 

So he nods his head slowly.

“I’m going to up your dosage.” 

He fills the prescription, sits there in the pharmacy after a useless session with his therapist and thinks about the placebo effect of it all. 

*

He can’t sleep.

Even though he’s taken his sleeping pills. 

All too aware of the space on their bed.

The space between him and Richie.

He assumes foolishly that Richie is asleep. That he doesn’t have as many doubts and worries swirling around his head. But eventually the too even sound of Richie pretending to sleep still, and the bed shifts as Richie changes position to look at Eddie.

In their dark of their bedroom, Richie is only illuminated by the strip of moonlight behind their curtains. 

But it’s enough that Eddie can see the seriousness in his features. 

“You know I love you, right?”

“Rich-”

“No listen,” Richie says. Voice soft and sleepy. “Like we’ve been through some shit, but I love you, I think that I’ve always loved you. That somehow I’ve spent my entire life loving you, even when I didn’t know who you were.”

The type of intimacy that can only come from the middle of the night confession.

The guilt eats bitterly inside of Eddie. 

_ I forgot you _ , he wants to say.

But he can’t.

He can’t lose this.

So he says, the only thing he can, “I love you too, Richie, more than anything.” 

*

Richie grabs Eddie’s wallet. Claiming that he forgot his own in the car, but it’s a thin excuse and there’s a teasing smile on Richie’s lips. It doesn’t matter, Eddie would have paid for dinner anyways, but there’s something fun about it, the coy way Richie slips his hand inside the pocket of Eddie’s blazer to pull his wallet out. 

Intimate.

He’ll make sure Richie  _ thanks him  _ properly for dinner later.

Which honestly is probably Richie’s plan. 

He keeps claiming that this is an anniversary dinner, though Eddie can’t keep track of which time getting together  _ this  _ particular day counts for. It was mostly an excuse for Richie to get their waiter to bring them out a free dessert.

As if they both weren’t more than able to afford anything on the menu. 

Eddie laughs as Richie pulls out his credit card with a flourish and says, “Mr. Kaspbrak will be paying tonight,” in one of his terrible  _ voices _ .

Their waiter is less than amused. 

Eddie doesn’t notice at first, too busy making apologies to their waitress, to see that an old polaroid has fallen out of his wallet, but when their waiter takes the bill he notices it face up on the table and makes a move to grab it.

Richie’s quicker than him, flipping the photo face up on the table, a look of surprise on his features.

It’s the one that Eddie had found years ago among Richie’s things, the one of Eddie and a childhood friend, older and more faded now. 

Richie picks it up, and slips the photo back into Eddie’s wallet, a smile so soft and happy on his face as he says, “Fuck, you’re really sentimental, aren’t you, Eds?” 

“Alert the press,” Eddie teases, before taking his wallet back.

There’s something Richie isn’t saying. Something he wants to say. Eddie can tell that much, but he has no idea what it is. 

So he lets the topic drop, until their bill returns again and as Eddie is mentally calculating the tip, Richie says in a small wistful voice. “You probably would’ve found teenage me annoying.”

“I found the current you annoying.” 

*

It’s 2014.

And gay marriage is legal in California.

And Richie says, “Hey, wanna get married,” so casually that Eddie forgets how to breathe.

There’s a ring he’s been hiding in their sock drawer, not even sure that he would ever be brave enough to use, but there’s Richie so casually asking while their in the middle of watching  _ Fox News  _ complain about how America is falling apart and Eddie is so in love with this man.

Has always been.

Will always be. 

Says, “Yes,” without thinking about it. 

They end up at the courthouse the next morning, nothing fancy, just the two of them and Richie’s agent as a witness. Forty dollars and the city clerk making them sign some papers that mean  _ so fucking much _ .

And Richie grinning so wide it looks that his face might hurt, “I can’t wait to call you my  _ husband  _ in all my jokes about you?”

“You tell jokes about me?”

“You’re my  _ muse  _ baby.” 

*

Richie goes on tour again, and despite the fact that Eddie can’t just leave work for months to go with him. He makes a plan to go to one show at least every other week. Enough that he can’t forget, and that they’re always building things up in anticipation until they see each other again.

_ Missing  _ him is so easy.

Eddie wonders why he forgot how to before. 

He’s sitting in the audience, third row on the left, and Richie keeps looking in his direction which is probably a  _ distraction,  _ but nobody in the crowd knows any better. 

At least until Richie goes off script, “My husband came to see this show!”

There’s  _ awws  _ from the crowd. 

“He’s actually a really sentimental fuck, he’d never fucking admit it if you asked but,” Richie pauses. Voice soft and sweet. And despite the fact that Eddie knows that nobody knows who he is, he can’t help but shift awkwardly in his seat. Too much attention always making him nervous, even as indirect as this attention is. “He’ll hate me for telling you all how soft he is, won’t be able to keep his tough insurance salesman street cred at work - because apparently that is a  _ thing _ .”

A laugh from the crowd. 

“But my husband, he has this photo of me as a kid that he keeps in his wallet. We didn’t even know each other as kids, I don’t know how he found it, but here I am awkward at thirteen forever in my husband’s wallet.” 

He knows that Richie changes things for his bits.

Exaggerates a little.

But this feels so odd since Eddie knows the photo in his wallet is of himself, not of  _ Richie _ .

He forgets to laugh, when Richie drops the punchline a moment later. “Which is why I was really fucking surprised that he let me marry him at a courthouse instead of a whole five course meal of a wedding. But you know  _ forty  _ dollars is cheap, and we’re a coupon household before anything else.” 

*

They have sex in some fancy hotel room, in a city that Eddie has already forgotten the name of, in a moment that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of thing but it  _ does _ , of course it  _ does _ .

Because Eddie kisses Richie like his life depends on it and says, “What did I do with my life before you?”

And Richie laughs a little before kissing him back, “I don’t know, but I bet it was boring as fuck.” 

“I didn’t realize  _ fucking  _ you was boring.”

“Well, I mean, not when you do that thing with you tongue, Eds.” 

*

He’s the happiest he’s ever been.

The happiest he ever will be.

But at some point he knows the other shoe has to drop.

It’s not the stress of the tour or the paparazzi or anything like that, it’s just fucking  _ New York _ . 

It has always been in New York, their beginning and their end. 

“I’m so nervous, I might actually die,” Richie says.

Eddie’s stuck in traffic, later for his show, in a rental car on the other side of New York City. This is what he gets for thinking that he could do business meetings at the same time as following Richie around on his tour.

Why is it that everyone forgets to drive once there’s a little bit of rain on the ground? 

“Statistically speaking, I’m more likely to get in a car accident and die while on the phone with you, than you are to suddenly have a heart attack on stage.”

“Eds, this is for  _ Netflix _ .”

“Again, statistics say cars are more deadly than online streaming services.”

Richie’s voice shakes from nervousness, but he laughs all the same - “Why is that reassuring?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m stuck in traffic.”

“It’s fine,” Richie assure him. Even though they both know it’s not. “I’m just hiding outside the theater waiting for my getaway car to get here, no big deal.” 

“You should go inside, it’s fucking cold out here.”

“We’re from  _ Maine _ ,” Richie insists.

The same old joke.

And this is where Eddie would reply that living in California has changed him, but he stops before the words can fall from his lips, - “Hey, hold on, Rich, someone else is calling?” 

“Work?”

The words,  _ unknown number _ and  _ Maine _ stare up at him from the rental car’s caller ID.

Somehow, he knows that he has to take this call.

That taking this call will change everything, but that he  _ has  _ to take it. 

“I’ll call you right back, it’s probably spam, I love you.” 

He hangs up before Richie finishes replying, “I love you too.” 

Takes a deep breath.

And answers the call, despite every warning bell in his head telling him not to - 

“Edward Kaspbrak speaking.”

“It’s Mike from  _ Derry _ .” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> (and then they k worded the clown and everyone lived happily ever after, the end.)


End file.
